


The Ghost of Christmas Past

by babythor



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Gen, Hospitals, Prison, Russian Roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:18:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babythor/pseuds/babythor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they became a team, they each endured their fair share of lonely Christmases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura/gifts), [lokobookworm95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokobookworm95/gifts).



The Ghost of Christmas Past

 

_Belgium, 2000_

Annaliese Gehringer stepped into the soft light of the street and assumed the thoughtful stride of someone out for a walk alone. The sweet music and incense from the church on the corner preparing for the midnight Mass hung in the cold air. The snow crunched beneath her boots, and Annaliese could almost pretend that this was just a silent walk on Christmas Eve.

Annaliese preferred low-profile grifts, but her eyes had gotten too big for her reputation. Annaliese Gehringer was anonymous, no trace of her name or her face was left behind on any of her scores. It was too good a reputation to besmirch by bumbling around in the world of white-collar grifts.

Sophie Devereaux was the answer. Sophie popped up three years ago, taking on little cons here and there, stretching her wings. Then her little fledgling made her splash a year and a half ago when she stole the David—one of two cast models of Michelangelo’s David. A priceless artifact of the artistic process.

The challenge was in keeping Sophie and Annaliese separate _and_ documented. When one was in Rome, the other was in Vienna. When one was in Istanbul, the other was in Oslo. It was no easy feat, the eyewitnesses who could place Annaliese and the ones who could place Sophie, the passports, transportation records…

There had to be some overlaps, too. That was the hardest part, laying the ground work for just the right amount of suspicion. It took some doing, like that double hit in Florence, or her little one-woman Round Robin in Tokyo. She smiled. It would be the smoothest transition in grifter history, and she was the only one who could pull it off.

Years of work culminated in Sophie finally taking the David. For continuity’s sake, Sophie had used one of Annaliese’s aliases, albeit a lesser known one. That was the nail in the coffin that finally got the question asked, who is Sophie Devereaux? It was like an audition, and for succeeding, the world had opened up to names like Fabergé and Rembrandt.

Annaliese’s last hoorah was tucked in her shoulder bag: a little Book of Hours wrapped in airtight vellum. It was this one Book of Hours in particular that had created Annaliese, and it seemed fitting that it was this one that would end her.

The tingly sense of anticipation bubbled warmly in her chest. With every step in the frosty night before Christmas, she peeled back a layer of Annaliese. When Annaliese was gone, Sophie Devereaux would be left.

 

_Massachusetts, 2009_

He stared through the plexiglass. “Just you?”

“We’ve decided that it’s best if I’m the only one who visits. Can’t let the warden have all of our faces, can we?”

Nate sighed. For surrendering himself, he got to skip court and go straight to prison. But in the six weeks from when he left the hospital to now as he wore a khaki jumpsuit, Nate had not heard from his team once.

Now three days past Christmas, Sophie sat across from him. She had that expression on her face—the one that Nate knew by the tension smoothed over with a soft pleasantness. Sophie could never hide the disgust under the intent to play nice, not from Nate.

“They’re still mad at me.”

“Oh, Nate,” Sophie clicked her tongue, “they’re only mad because you lied and handed yourself over to Sterling without telling anyone. And you got shot.” She punctuated it with a clenched jaw and a raised brow.

Nate didn’t blink. He made that deal with Sterling for the good of the team. If he had told them, they would have stopped him. They knew that. Sophie knew that. He did what was best for the team—as long as the team was safe, it didn’t matter what happened to him. And, really, if the worst of it was that he had to suffer through _It’s a Wonderful Life_ on Christmas Day with thirty other inmates, then it just proved why he was the one who led the team. He was the one could make the hard decision.

It wasn’t like he meant to get shot, anyway.

He held out for as long as he could, but time was running short. Nate had to hand it to Sophie, she was better at the waiting game. He broke the staring contest. “So how’s Detective Bonanno doing?”

“He’s back at work now. They sent us a Christmas card.”

“Who did?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Detective Bonanno and his family. His wife insisted.”

“Ah, well. I’m glad that he’s doing—that he’s doing well.” Nate wished he had a drink in his hand, something that would give him an excuse to look away. “Done any plays recently?”

“No.” Sophie settled back against her seat, “I’m too busy doing your job.”

“Excuse me? Doing my—what?”

“Your _job_ , Nate. You know? _Leading the team_. We still take clients—the job doesn’t stop just because you got pinched.”

“Sophie, you can’t do my job!” Nate shook his head. It was unbelievable.

Sophie always said more when she didn’t say anything. Nate got the message loud and clear when she hung up the phone and walked away. Visiting hours were over.

 

_New York, 1998_

_Little Saint Nick_ blasted from the speakers and rattled everything in the apartment. Parker looked over at Bunny, “Okay, so we should make sure it’s actually playing before we try turning up the volume.”

It took some button mashing, but she finally got the music turned off. It was weird being in the apartment without Archie there.

The door buzzed. Parker set down the remote and cracked the door open.

“One large pepperoni with olives and extra cheese?”

“And the bread sticks?” She gave the pizza guy a once-over.

“Yup.”

Parker nodded suspiciously. He handed her the boxes.

“That’ll be—“

She pushed a twenty into his hand and shut the door. “Pizza’s here!”

The lights twinkled off the ornaments on the tree and the fire crackled in the fireplace, but no one answered. Parker sidled off to the kitchen with the pizza. Pizza stains weren’t something she’d ever cared about before, but she wanted to prove that she could handle the apartment by herself.

Aside from one mishap with the hot glass encasing the gas fireplace, Parker thought she was doing pretty well. She hadn’t burned anything (except her hand, but she iced it and it was fine), nobody had called the cops, no eggnog spilled on the carpet. Parker had even managed to keep her hands away from the presents, tempting as they were in shiny packaging under the tree.

Watching _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ again seemed like a better option than taking a second turn at trying to figure out the stereo.

Parker wondered what Archie and his family were doing as she peeled the olives off one by one and rolled them in her napkin. His family wanted him home for Christmas and Christmas Eve, but Archie promised that as soon as he got back, he and Parker would celebrate their own special Christmas. Just the two of them.

“ _Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot…”_

She smiled.

 

_Chicago, 1993_

It started two years ago when one of his foster parents noticed some abnormal breathing. The doctor called it asthma, Alec called it a bummer. He had to take his inhaler before playing outside or if he thought he was going to be running around. It was hard to remember, nobody thinks about running, they just do it.

He wanted to be good and remember to take his inhaler, but sometimes he would “forget” because it was embarrassing to be the kid who had to go to the office and take his inhaler before going to P.E.

The real bummer about asthma was that when his classmates started passing around bronchitis, it got passed to Alec and turned immediately into pneumonia.

Beverly was nice, but she reminded Alec a bit of Wile E. Coyote. The more she tried to get done, the more it tended to go wrong. Alec tried not to blame her too much. The morning that his cough showed up, two of the other kids had the flu and were throwing up all over the place, Beverly handed him some children’s ibuprofen and ran off.

It was harder, though, to not wonder what Beverly was doing with so many kids when Alec had a coughing fit so violent that he started hyperventilating and had to get one of the older boys to call 911 for him.

The nurses were nice, but they were always busy. Mostly he played with his adjustable bed or watched the TV in his room. Beverly came by everyday with books, but she kept bringing _kid’s_ books. One book took like a whole minute, and then it was over. Well, it probably took ten, but what’s ten minutes to a six year old who is under orders not to leave his bed?

Today Beverly brought gifts with the books. “Merry Christmas, Alec.”                                                                         

He smiled. Talking made him cough (it was bad enough that the doctor made him take deep breaths until he started coughing out green-and-brown snot).

When Alec was buried under crumpled wrapping paper, homemade cards, and a _brand new_ box of colored pencils, he gleamed up at Beverly. Beverly smiled sadly back.

“I wish I could stay, Alec, but I have to get back to the other kids.” She set a blank sketchbook on his lap then walked out with her head hung low.

Alec wondered if it was the lights in the hospital, but the colors of his pencils didn’t seem as bright as they were when he first opened them.

 

_Brazil, 2001_

Eliot was never comfortable with the way that December was the beginning of summer in the southern hemisphere. It was pretty damn unnatural for someone born and raised in Oklahoma, but at least Sao Paulo was nice this time of year.

Of course, it could be nicer.

When his Brazilian friend had his back turned, Eliot worked his wrists against his restraints. He tried to tune out the growing desperation and the tinny Christmas music echoing in from somewhere. _Plan, plan, plan, I need a plan._ The Brazilian was loading a gun, but apparently with only one bullet, because Eliot saw him spin the chamber before locking it into place.

_Oh, come on._

His heart was racing, there was an incoherent babble of curses and prayers pounding in the back of his head, and a profound numbness in his fingers from clenching so hard, but none of it was heard or felt. All of Eliot’s awareness was appropriated by the impassive sensation of the barrel pressed against his temple.

Click.

* * *

 

_Portland, 2013_

Lieutenant Patrick Bonanno held out his hand to shake Nathan Ford’s and nodded toward the brunette woman in the velvet dress. “Congratulations.”

“Yes.” Bonanno watched Nate’s face soften as he followed his gaze. “Thank you.”

Nate and Sophie sent out a wedding announcement for December 25, and an invitation for a reception on December 31.

It was a lovely gathering. Garlands hung from the walls and windows, there was a real, wood-burning fire in the fireplace along the far wall, and orchestral music playing softly from hidden speakers. Bonanno closed his eyes and tuned in briefly to the piece. _Es ist ein Ros entsprungen._

He opened his eyes and let his attention drift back into the party. His wife was across the room making conversation with a woman named Peggy who was married to Hurley who was somehow involved with the bust from the poker night who was talking with Shelly who _was_ at the poker night. There were some faces he didn’t know, and some that he thought he might (but dismissed the notion as was his practice when dealing with Nate Ford).

It seemed that Hardison had finally worked out his relationship with the blonde, Parker. Every once in a while Parker would look up from her conversation with the white haired gentleman with the cane to smile back at Hardison who would take a beat from his argument from Eliot to watch her with warmth sparkling in his eyes. Bonanno hid his smile behind a sip of champagne.

He didn’t miss that underneath the argument, “Beer is not supposed to taste like cotton candy, Hardison!” there was a stillness in place of the turbulence that he had always associated with Eliot. Bonanno’s instincts told him that that was the least of the changes in Eliot Spencer, but decided to leave it alone.

Instead, he took another sip of champagne. Then he walked over to Peggy and his wife, wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist, and said, “Patrick Bonanno. Nice to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 12/3/2016


End file.
